Legends of Dimmingwood 02:Betrayal of Thieves (15 page)

***

Two hours later, I was asking myself what madness had come over me to allow Fleet to take charge of anything. My desperation was no excuse. The street thief was lack-brained, I knew he was lack-brained, and yet I had followed his lead. What did that say for my own sense?

The two of us crouched behind a low stone wall, overlooking the practice yards of the Praetor’s keep. My knees were buried deep in straw, the upper half of my face raised just enough to peer over the top of the wall.

Even as I complied with Fleet’s precautions, I protested. “This is ridiculous. Its broad daylight and I’ve never been more conspicuous in my life. We’d be much less remarkable just standing in the open, gawking.”

“You worry too much,” Fleet said. “If anybody notices a couple extra pairs of eyes peeping over the back wall, they’ll chalk it up to stable boys spying on the guardsmen at weapons practice. Anyway, I’m not about to stand out in the yard, mingling with Fists, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Just keep your head low and look casual, and we’re all right.”

“Sure,” I grumbled. “We’re real casual.”

I returned my attention to the practice yards. “What exactly am I looking for anyway?” I asked. “You said you could get me in to see Terrac, but I’ve been sitting here until my knees ache and all I’ve seen so far are a bunch of stenched Fists and city guardsmen, wrestling and grunting like overgrown farm boys.”

“Enough with the whining,” he said. “What have you got to complain about, I’d like to know? You have this nice cool shade to wait in, plenty of clean fresh water over there in the trough, if you work up a thirst, and the best entertainment any girl could wish for. I’ll tell you, there’s more than a handful of noble young ladies who’d trade their best stockings for an eyeful of the show you’re seeing. That’s the province’s best stock out there. Real fighting men.” He dug me in the ribs, adding with a knowing grin, “Handsome devils, aren’t they? I’ll bet you’ve got your eye on the big shirtless lad over there.”

Disgusted, I shook my head and fended off his bony elbow.

“Noble ladies,” I snorted, when the rib digging and elbow fencing died down. “If you’ve ever stepped within a dozen paces of a lady, except for the time it took to lift her purse, I’ll kiss a slop-sucking pig.”

I missed whatever retort he came back with, because my eyes suddenly lit on a lone figure entering the yard. My stomach tightened as recognition struck, and almost without my being aware of it, a stronger emotion stirred at the back of my consciousness. It was good to see Terrac again.

It had only been a few months since we were last together, but as I studied him, I noted the little differences. He had lost the woods garb I last saw him in, traded for a new leather jerkin over cotton shirt and trousers. His clothing was simple but well made and easily marked him as one of middle station. If I saw him on the street, I would think him the servant of a merchant or nobleman. Not elegant enough for a house servant maybe, but he looked the part of a gardener or a stable hand. He had a strong, well-fed look and I thought proudly that was due to the healthy food and exercise we provided for him in Dimming. He’d been a scrawny runt when he came to us, but look at him now. He almost, but not quite, cut a pretty figure out there in the practice yard. Or maybe it only seemed that way because he had a lot of ugly Fists as a backdrop.

My satisfaction vanished when I saw the heavy blade hanging at his hip. I had seen him with a sword before on a few occasions, such as when we fought mock battles with Dradac, but this weapon looked wrong on the boy who had once wanted to be a priest. Maybe that was only because it so much resembled the kind of blade a Fist would carry. I turned my attention to his face, still dominated by the startling violet eyes that had arrested me on our first meeting all those years ago. His jaw was clenched now, as it often was when he was feeling determined or excessively stubborn, and that helped to make him look a little less ridiculous in the midst of the older men in the practice yard. Even so, he seemed to me like a fierce little terrier among wolfhounds, and I wondered what he did here.

I wasn’t so distracted by the question that I failed to take in the detail that was of most interest. He showed not the slightest sign of the injury he had taken the day of his capture in Dimming. He must have been tended by a remarkable healer, because looking at him now, I could almost believe I had dreamed up that arrow between his shoulder blades.

Terrac, unaware of my concealed eyes following him across the yard, was approaching a large red-bearded man Fleet had pointed out to me earlier as Arms Master Verrik, a man who had earned himself a reputation even as far as Dimmingwood. I had heard the former Fist spoken of with grudging respect even among Rideon’s band. The fact that the man was an old nemesis of the Red Hand caused me to watch the exchange between Terrac and him with interest.

I couldn’t make out their words over the distance, but the conversation ended with Terrac unbuckling his sword belt and taking up the bundled lathe the other man indicated to him. The arms master took Terrac to the center of the field, where a sturdy looking combatant was found for him. I was concerned when I saw the long-legged man they set him against, a heavily muscled Fist with the look of a veteran, but my apprehension swiftly vanished as the practice commenced and I saw the larger man seemed to bear no personal malice toward the priest boy. He fought fairly, but he didn’t go easy on Terrac either. Terrac gave a better account for himself than I would have expected, and even when the match ended, as it inevitably must, with the boy flat on his back, I had to admit I was left impressed by the skill and determination with which he had fought.

I marveled over the change that had come over my friend since our parting. His sword skill was improved already under the tutelage of these men, but more than that, I sensed within him a new attitude, disturbing and unfamiliar. He appeared colder and more confident. I had to dig deep to confirm that anything of the old Terrac remained inside. But it did. I smiled, relieved, as my magic closed around the tight ball of emotion shoved far back in Terrac’s subconscious mind. Conscience, principle, a smidgen of condescension…

Yes, it was all still there, just smothered under the new feelings of selfishness and ambition that would have felt perfectly normal in anyone else, yet looked out of place in Terrac. I was surprised how glad I was to rediscover the traits I had once mocked my friend for. All the same, it disturbed me to see him so at home among men like the Fists. He appeared almost to belong with them, and this was a concept I had difficulty reconciling with my memories of the cowardly priest boy who used to abhor violence of any kind.

As my thoughts raced, Terrac moved on to his next match. I watched in disbelief as he downed this combatant, then helped the man to his feet. The fallen opponent said something and the two laughed like old friends.

That decided me. Rot these Fists, I didn’t know what they had done to my friend, but it was obvious they had poisoned his mind. If he were left in their care much longer I probably wouldn’t know him anymore. I decided if I was going to act, this was the time for it.

“Fleet,” I said. “I want to get a message to him.”

Fleet, seemingly having forgotten our mission, was sitting with his back to the wall, absently shuffling a deck of greasy looking cards he carried in the inner pocket of his coat.

But I had his attention now. “You’re mad,” he told me, turning to peek over the wall into the practice yards. “I’m not stepping into the middle of that wasp’s nest so you can visit with a Fist. This right here is as close as I get.”

“He’s not a Fist,” I said. “He’s a stupid priest boy who doesn’t know what he’s getting himself into, and he needs my help.”

“Maybe,” Fleet said doubtfully. “But he’s still surrounded by blades and carries one of his own, so I wouldn’t be too sure he won’t turn on you. If you ask me, he looks pretty comfortable with the rest of those killers. Anyway, I think the priest was right and you should just leave him be.”

Seeming to consider the matter decided, he returned his attention to his cards.

I knocked them out of his hand. “Don’t be such a coward,” I said. “I can’t do this alone, so you have to help me. I want a chance to gauge Terrac’s reaction before I meet him, which means you’re the natural choice to approach him. If he saw me, he might be startled enough to give me away.”

“Give
you
away?” Fleet muttered disbelievingly, plucking the cards out of the dirt, dusting them off, and pocketing them.

“Let me tell you something, my woodsy friend,” he said. “I haven’t avoided a thief's brand all these years to go begging for one now. This is how I operate on the streets: casual and low profile. You try keeping a low profile hanging around the Fist’s practice yards, chatting it up with the Praetor’s men. Or if I’m really lucky maybe I’ll even bump into a city guardsman or two. Wouldn’t they love to see me on their home ground?”

“Quit your pig-squealing,” I said. “I’m not asking you to talk to anybody. I’ll write out the message and all you’ll have to do is step up there, easy as can be, and deliver it.”

That caught his attention. “You can write?”

I smiled, remembering the lessons Terrac had inflicted on me at Brig’s insistence.

“Give me parchment and ink and I can write the alphabet, backwards and upside down,” I said.

We had no parchment, as it turned out, and no ink either. But in the end, I removed my gray coat, slit my arm with Fleet’s belt knife, and dipped my fingers in the thin trickle of blood to smear out the message across the back of the coat. Fleet watched over my shoulder all the while, and I had the satisfaction of seeing him properly impressed for once. Neither our time nor my blood were as plentiful as could have been wished, so I had to keep my message short and cut out a few letters. Still, I thought Terrac would make out what I meant.

“Cemetery tonight,” I read aloud to Fleet, since he couldn’t read the words for himself.

What I’d actually put down may have been closer to
Cemtry tonit
, since I wasn’t quite sure of the proper spelling. I hesitated over it, squeezed out a little more blood, and painted a questionable squiggle at the end of the last word that could have passed for anything the reader wanted to imagine.

When I was satisfied with my work, Fleet disappeared into the stables and emerged a short time later, leading a scrawny stable boy out by the collar. The boy couldn’t have been more than six or seven years old.

“No need for me to act the messenger,” Fleet said, sounding pleased with himself. “Ticks here will deliver our little gift, won’t you, Ticks, my boy?”

My silent stare must have said what I thought, but I could see Fleet was determined.

He said, “The boy’s just old enough to be useful, but not bright enough to ask nosy questions. Right, Ticks?”

“Right,” the smudge-faced lad chimed in happily.

Protesting wouldn’t have done me any good, because Fleet was already giving the child his instructions.

“See that young fellow out there, the one that looks paler and scrawnier than the rest?” he asked. “That’s our friend and we’re playing a little joke… Or something of the sort.”

He sounded so uncommitted to the story I doubted a drunk on sixth day would believe him, but Ticks just nodded eagerly at every other word.

“Very good, now here’s what we need from you. You want to scamper out there, quick like, and put this old coat into the hands of that fellow and, without a word to anybody else, get yourself right away again. Understood? And don’t run straight back here while he’s watching, but take a round about way. There’s a copper penny in it, if you do the job smart.”

That captured the boy’s attention if nothing else did and he nodded brightly. In fact, he was so eager to set on his errand that Fleet had to catch him by the collar and hold him back.

“Hold on, hold on,” he said. “You’ve got to say something too. Tell our friend—”

Here he hesitated, looking expectantly at me.

“Just tell him his friends from Dimmingwood are worried,” I said.

Fleet turned to the boy. “You hear what she says, uh, what’s your name again? Flea? Tick? Right, right, that’s fine. Now off you go. Remember ‘worried forest friends.' Not one word more and not one less or I’ll keep your copper and tear off your ears. Got that?”

The boy nodded, his expression equal parts fear and greed, and clambered over the wall as soon as he was released. I watched as he scampered across the yard, stopping once or twice to examine a bug on the ground or to take a rock out of his shoe.

“He’s going to ruin it,” I said.

“Probably,” Fleet agreed.

I knew the exact moment my cryptic message was reported. I couldn’t hear over this distance, of course, but I saw Terrac start as the boy spoke to him. Then he twisted around as if expecting to find me only a few steps away. I thought he would never turn his attention to the delivered garment. It was a relief when he finally looked down at the bloody words scrawled there. If he appeared momentarily confused, he recovered quickly and rolled up the coat, stuffing it under one arm and glancing around, as if to be sure no one had been reading over his shoulder. When he turned to question the small messenger, our boy had already disappeared.

I leaned back, satisfied. Provided Terrac did nothing stupid, and considering his history, I didn’t deem that entirely a given, we would escape tonight.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The water cemetery was an eerier spot than I remembered. What possessed me to name this our meeting place? It hadn’t been so bad when I first arrived, passing through the gardens to enter the lonely graveyard at twilight. Then at least there had been more than moonlight to see by and the comfort of occasional bursts of laughter and conversation filtering over the walls from strolling citizens in the gardens beyond. But that had been hours ago.

The sun was down now and a grey mist rose from the waters. A cold dampness had long ago worked its way into my bones as I waited in the stillness behind the shadow of a tall, potted tree and I shivered, fuming at myself for not being more specific in my message. ‘Tonight’ could mean anytime between now and sunrise, and I had no desire to wait that long in this gloomy place. A chill draft crept over the high wall at my back, stirring the fronds of the surrounding plants and sending another shiver through me as its fingers caressed my spine. I turned up the collar of the new coat Fleet had procured for me and, shifting my weight so the foot I crouched on could get a little blood back into it, schooled myself to patience.